Nonsense

Happiness is a talent,
Or so I’ve been told.
But it’s not a gift
That I have, I wear
Sadness like a second skin,
Always there and always clinging.
Fearful of joy
Due to its short shelf life,
Scared of anything other
Than sorrow, which I adore
In its simplicity.
Maybe I’m not meant to grin
And beam, perhaps I’m made
To grimace and give just tiny smiles,
And I think I’m ok with that.
Just let me ponder it awhile.

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